


My finding the secret / of loving you / always for the first time

by lepidopteran



Series: May 1968 AU [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Drinking, Drug Use, M/M, a little internalized homophobia?, mai 1968 au, pretty boys reading poetry and feeling feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-28 18:25:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lepidopteran/pseuds/lepidopteran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jehan's first public poetry reading, Bahorel's first time with another man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> takes place in february '68, directly after "Choose this heart with its safety catch." 
> 
> title from another andre breton poem

Jehan drops the needle on the record and it hisses before flowing into easy, lilting guitar. Jehan likes American music, and folk music, and beautiful lyrics. He swings his legs up onto his bed, beside Grantaire.  
  
The room is cramped but full of light, which allows tall orchids to grow up from planters on the floor. A huge fern takes up most of Jehan's desk; the rest is covered with books – _Notre Dame des Fleurs, Les Journaux des Dieus, The Manifesto for an Independent Revolutionary Art, La Jeune Parque,_ _La Société du spectacle_.  
  
On the cushioned desk chair, a precarious stack of fresh copies of _grammeS_ and the _Internationale Situationniste_. In the typewriter, a crisp page is half filled with lines of Jehan's own – Grantaire is tempted to read them, but he knows better. A carbon paper copy of the Song of Solomon lies beside the typewriter, littered with scribbled annotations in French and Hebrew. One of Grantaire's paintings takes up most of the wall beside the bed, next to a set of photographs by Claude Cahun.  


Grantaire exhales a sharp cloud of smoke and sings along: 

_We are verses out of rhythm, couplets out of rhyme, in syncopated time.  
_

"God, not again," says Jehan. He plucks the joint from between Grantaire's paint-stained knuckles, and brings it to his own lips. Jehan is a hazy spirit swathed in gold silk and grey smoke, peering from under thick locs and coke-bottle lenses.  


  "Not again what?" Grantaire protests.  
  
"You've come over just to mope, haven't you?" He gestures, making a trail of smoke in the air.  
  
Grantaire lies back and watches the smoke rise to the ceiling. "No," he says, and scrubs a hand over his stubble. "I came here to think, and to smoke, and to be in company conducive to thinking."  
  
"And conducive to getting high," says Jehan, and passes the joint. He rises and runs his fingers across the spines on his bookshelf, hovering over a volume of Breton. He looks back at Grantaire over his shoulder, which is slipping out of his silk shirt. "I'm glad you're not in a bad mood. I was hoping to get some advice. "

Grantaire sits up, nearly hitting his head on the low ceiling. 

  "Don't laugh, please," says Jehan. He tugs on his locs and taps his feet, and Grantaire has rarely seen him fidget. "Swear you won't laugh."  
  
"I swear on – this joint," says Grantaire, raising it as if in a toast. "No, really – I won't laugh, for chrissake, how often do you come to me for advice?"  


Jehan drifts over to the turntable. He's stalling – they listened to sides A and B already, but he flips the record again, and the breathy strains of Scarborough Fair fill the room. 

"There's a limit on the amount of American folk music I can handle in one sitting, Jehan," Grantaire says gently. He blows a smoke ring. 

"Simon & Garfunkel isn't folk," says Jehan, hurt. "It's poetry, it's revolution." He sways from side to side, then turns on his heel, and slumps against the wall. "Listen, Aire, I met someone – I mean, I'd seen him in classes, I knew him a little. But the other day I really met him." He leans against the window frame and taps his fingers against the sill.  
  
"So what's the problem?"  
  
"I don't know how to love a real person, Grantaire."

Grantaire stands, and climbs up onto the wide window sill beside Jehan. He passes the joint. Jehan hollows his cheeks; his lashes flutter when he exhales. 

"I came to this city dreaming about truth, and beauty, and boys with silver tongues who would effortlessly teach me what love means," says Grantaire. "When I was nineteen, I filled whole canvasses with bullshit, because I didn't know anything else."  
  
Jehan offers the joint and Grantaire takes it, but he doesn't inhale at first – he lets it rest between his fingers until his head and shoulders are obscured in a cloud of smoke.Then he takes a hit and waves the smoke away with one calloused hand. "It's not that I'm jaded, or a cynic –"  


"Although you are," says Jehan. 

"Although I am," Grantaire concedes. "But I think differently about love now."  
  
Jehan climbs up onto the windowsill, facing Grantaire, and rests his chin on his knees. "How do you mean?"  
  
"I can't tell you," says Grantaire. "You've got to learn for yourself. But chase him, or you'll never know what you might have missed. " He grimaces, and leans in, and kisses Jehan so gently on the cheek. "Or you'll never know what might have disappointed you."  
  
Jehan leans back against the wall and blows smoke to the ceiling, long throat bared beyond the threadbare silk collar of his shirt. He removes his glasses and sets them on the windowsill beside him, and Grantaire has never seen eyes so mellow and deep.  
  
He can't help but think that Jehan is so much more than his love. He's a forest fire, and a Sunday morning coffee, and a soft-spoken prophet, more than he is a nineteen year old youth. It kills Grantaire to think of all that complexity falling like scythed wheat at the feet of one brutish man.  
  
"You're a poet, Jehan," says Grantaire. It's not a question. Jehan has never allowed Grantaire or anyone else to read his poems, but everyone knows he writes. "We've been friends since your first day in Paris. Let me read something of yours, before I have to watch your innocence wither."  
  
Jehan looks up at him with a lazy smile. "You know very well I'm far from innocent, Aire," he says. "And I can take care of myself."

"Of course," says Grantaire. "But humor me. Let me hear your voice before it's tainted by sentimentality."  
  
Jehan laughs rudely. But he puts on his glasses, jumps down from the window ledge, and takes a battered leatherbound notebook from the nightstand. He pulls back his locs with a colorful scarf, sits cross-legged on his bed, and lets the notebook fall open to a random page. "I can't believe I'm doing this," he says. And he begins to read.  
  
Jehan's words knock the wind from Grantaire's chest. They make his fingertips tingle. They sober him up, and make him feel higher than he's ever been before.  
  
"That wasn't what I expected," Grantaire says, when Jehan pronounces the last line and looks up at him expectantly.  
  
"You didn't like it?" Jehan asks. 

  "It's crude to evaluate art, " says Grantaire, swinging his legs off the windowsill and standing. " Goddamn, Jehan. You know as well as I do that you're remarkable. " He puts on his coat and scarf in a hurry, and bends to kiss Jehan twice on each cheek, in true Parisian fashion. "Take it easy. I have a plan."  
  
\---  
  
Within a week, Grantaire has booked Jehan a reading at a small coffeehouse adored by mimeograph poets. They have often attended readings there together, and Grantaire is impatient to see Jehan reading before the same crowd. The only barrier is convincing Jehan that it's a good idea.  
  
When he finds out, Jehan is so embarassed that he falls off his barstool. When he sobers up, he doesn't speak to Grantaire for two days.  
  
Grantaire persists. He sends Jehan a new orchid and a pretty cigarette case. He shows up on Jehan's doorstep, charming and bold, like an ex-lover who can't take a hint. And he makes Jehan laugh, until he finally cracks one night over a bottle of red wine.  
  
"Fine!" Jehan says, leaning close and snatching the bottle back from Grantaire. They are cross-legged on the floor of Grantaire's studio, surrounded by canvasses, pots of paints, ephemera clippings, fascinating found objects from Paris' trash heaps.  
  
"I'll do it, " Jehan says, taking a drink. "Jesus Christ, you're persistent."  


Grantaire gives a loud whoop. He jumps up and swings the windows open, letting in the frosty air, leaning out over the rooftops and shouting, "The highly regarded Monsieur Jean Prouvaire will read his poetry at the Café des Lettres, on this Saturday the 17th of February, 1968."  
  
Jehan snorts. "Highly regarded?"  
  
Grantaire turns from the window with a wild grin that makes Jehan laugh out loud. "By me you are."  
  



	2. Chapter 2

  
On Thursday, Jehan sits beside Bahorel in the lecture hall for History of Symbolism.  
  
He makes the move wordlessly, dropping his books on the desk and sliding into the chair, staring straight ahead. He can tell that Bahorel has turned to look at him, but he keeps his eyes firmly on the blank blackboard.  
  
"Hello," Bahorel says. He sounds as if he's stifling a laugh, and Jehan clenches his jaw.  
  
"Good morning," Jehan mutters, but he doesn't turn his head.  
  
"It's nice to see you again," Bahorel says slowly. "Any more highly illegal acts of public art since we last met?"  
  
"Not as such," says Jehan.  
  
"That's a pity," says Bahorel. "I was hoping we could be the Bonnie and Clyde of street poetry."  
  
Jehan's mouth twitches up in spite of himself, and he glances at Bahorel sidelong. "It's not too late," he says. "But you're Bonnie."  
  
"Fine by me," says Bahorel. "I could pass as Faye Dunaway if I lost a couple of pounds."  
  
"Not likely," Jehan snorts. He allows himself to turn to look at Bahorel then, and he takes in the rakish moussed curls, the scar through one eyebrow, the tanned and weathered skin, the sweater stretched taut across broad shoulders, the sparkling eyes full of humor and liveliness. And he thinks, what the hell.  
  
"Listen," he says, resting his elbow on the desk between them. "I've got a poetry reading Saturday, would you like to come ? We can go for drinks after."  
  
Bahorel breaks into a blinding smile, says "I would love to," and Jehan is hopeless.  
  
\---  
  
Jehan's knees shake when he begins to read, but he makes eye contact with Grantaire and steadies himself. The coffeehouse is crowded with students and artists, some he knows and some he's never spoken to in his life. It's smoky and dim, but Jehan can just make out faces in the audience.  
  
Then his eyes land on Bahorel, and his voice catches for a moment in his throat. Bahorel is leaning back in his chair with his boots up on a small table, smiling with his eyes half closed. He looks up to meet Jehan's gaze, and blows him a kiss.  
  
Jehan shuts his eyes and says the last line of his final poem from memory, to shouts and snapping fingers, feeling suddenly lightheaded. He shuts his notebook and stumbles into the crowd, accepting compliments and slaps on the back. Grantaire squeezes his arm and says something about heading out for drinks with Feuilly, and Jehan nods in recognition and continues to weave through the crowd.  
  
Then Bahorel is there, reaching out with both hands, saying "Steady, Jehan, steady." The crowd parts around his imposing frame, and Jehan lets him reach out and place his large steadying hands on Jehan's shoulders.  
  
"You were wonderful," he says in Jehan's ear, quietly, so quietly Jehan is sure he imagined it.  
  
"I'm feeling a little dizzy, I might not be up for the bar after all," says Jehan apologetically.

"Forget the bar," says Bahorel. "My place is just around the corner. I'd love to hear what you have to say about your poetry."  
  
He keeps one hand resting lightly on Jehan's shoulder as they wind through the crowd and out of the café.  
  
They pass Grantaire and Feuilly, having a smoke just outside the door. "Coming along, Jehan?" Grantaire calls out.  
  
Jehan breaks away from Bahorel and whispers in Grantaire's ear, "If you fuck this up for me, I swear to god I will publish low-quality erotica under your name, permanently ruining your sexual reputation."  
  
"Motherfucker," Grantaire says with good humor, and waves him off.  
  
Bahorel's apartment is on the third floor of a crumbling brick building. By the time they get inside, Jehan is feeling less lightheaded, and more sure of himself. He realizes he's running on adrenaline, but if that's what it takes, he won't question it.  
  
They don't talk much about Jehan's poetry, or anything else. Jehan spent all night speaking, his voice is raw, and he's done with words. He wants to practice a poetics of bodies instead, with his thighs and his teeth, with Bahorel's rippling shoulder muscles and broad hands.  
  
Bahorel barely has a chance to flick on the light before Jehan is close in front of him, one hand on his chest, dark eyes intense.  
  
And Jehan has a moment of doubt, just one moment where he wonders if he's terribly mistaken and Bahorel will dump his body in the Seine tonight. But in the next moment Bahorel makes a rough noise under his breath and surges forward, and his lips are against Jehan's.  
  
Jehan deepens the kiss, worries his teeth over Bahorel's bottom lip, stands on his toes to sink his hands into Bahorel's shiny curls. And Bahorel lifts him, actually bodily lifts him off his feet, and breaks the kiss for just a moment to say "Bed?"  
  
Jehan nods and struggles to catch his breath. He has kissed a thousand times before, and kissed passionately, but never like this. Never with such narrow intensity of focus on another person's body, his heartbeat, the twitching sensitive nerves in his broad jaw when Jehan scrapes teeth over stubble. Jehan wraps his legs around Bahorel's waist and Bahorel peppers swift kisses over his neck and shoulders.  
  
Bahorel throws Jehan down on the bed and climbs over him, straddling his hips with his knees. Jehan reaches up to the buttons of Bahorel's collar, but Bahorel catches his wrists and pins them to the bed. "Stay," he murmurs.  
  
He pushes Jehan's sweater and t-shirt up and off, gently and almost reverently, and he grunts at the sight of Jehan's bare chest shiny with sweat. Jehan's heart flutters and he shuts his eyes.  
Bahorel lowers the bulk of his body over Jehan, and slides one hand along Jehan's jaw. Jehan bears his throat and Bahorel dives at it, sucking and nipping at the delicate flesh.  
  
"Aren't you gorgeous?" Bahorel murmurs, smiling against Jehan's neck. "Your poems set me on fucking fire, Jehan. Your words make me want to run reckless through the streets of Paris, god damn."  
  
"You want to do that anyway," Jehan says, "I'm willing to bet."  
  
"Yes," Bahorel says, running one calloused hand down Jehan's chest. "But your poems make me want to come home afterwards and do this," he nips at Jehan's ear, "and this," he kisses him, "and this," he palms Jehan through his trousers, "with you."  
  
Jehan rolls his hips up against Bahorel's hand, and Bahorel dives to Jehan's pulse and sucks. He laves his tongue down Jehan's neck and when he reaches Jehan's collarbone, he bites down. Jehan gasps.  
  
"Please," he grits out through his teeth.  
  
"Please what?" Bahorel says, looking up at Jehan, pupils blown wide with lust.  
  
"Anything," says Jehan. "God. Just touch me." And he takes a moment to roll his eyes to the ceiling and think that it should be impossible to be this attracted to anyone, nevermind some rock-and-roll street fighter with rough language and rougher hands, before Bahorel has his fly open and is taking Jehan in one of those beautiful rough hands.  
  
It is wild and a little clumsy. Jehan would be embarrassed at how fast he gets off if he wasn't entirely lost in sensation – Bahorel's hands, Bahorel's wide hips rolling down against him, the look of slackjawed wonder on Bahorel's face when Jehan comes with a wild ecstatic shout without breaking eye contact.  
  
Bahorel wipes his hand on the sheets and stretches out beside Jehan, who presses close and runs a hand up and down Bahorel's side. "Let me suck you off," he whispers against Bahorel's ear.  
  
He goes for the buttons of Bahorel's shirt again, and this time Bahorel allows him to undo them, and slide the fabric off of Bahorel's shoulders. Jehan's eyes go wide when he sees Bahorel's chest – the hard muscles are riddled with deep scars, and he has a large tattoo of a thorny rose over his heart. Jehan loves it instantly.  
  
"Why didn't you want me to see this?" Jehan demands. "You must know you're attractive."  
  
"The scars, the tattoo – women love them," Bahorel waves a hand. "But I was shy to show myself to you," he ducks his head and presses a kiss to Jehan's brow. "I didn't want to frighten you. I didn't want you to think badly of me."  
  
Jehan shakes his head. "Wait a moment –" he pushes himself up on one elbow – you said _women_ love them. Do you mean to tell me you've never had a male lover?"  
  
"Not until tonight," says Bahorel. "I've desired men before, of course. It just never happened."  
  
"Don't worry, I'll teach you," Jehan smiles. He nuzzles Bahorel's hip, and opens the fly of his tight blue jeans. "Is this alright?"  
  
"Jesus, yes, Jehan," says Bahorel.  
  
Bahorel, as it turns out, is larger than average. There's no way Jehan is taking all of him into his mouth, but he enthusiastically laves his tongue over Bahorel's cock, sucks on the head and presses kisses into the thick curls at the base.  
  
Bahorel certainly seems to enjoy it. He clenches and unclenches the sheets in his fist, hissing profanities and extravegant compliments through his teeth.  
  
"Where the fuck did you learn to suck cock like that?" Bahorel hisses. His tone is loaded with accusation, admiration, and adoration all at once.  
  
Jehan has never been anyone's first boy before. His lovers are usually more experienced than he is, rendering him shy and clumsy when they take him to bed, and he usually ends up bored to tears in the arms of men who see his femininity as passivity. Bahorel is different.

Bahorel lays all his six-feet-five-inches of muscle and sinew vulnerable to Jehan's ministrations – spread-eagled, head back, throat bared. Jehan wants to devour him whole, and he has permission.  
  
Jehan swirls his tongue across the head of Bahorel's cock, tasting precum, and Bahorel growls low and deep in his chest. The sound sends shivers up Jehan's spine. He wraps his hand around the base of Bahorel's cock and jacks him off.  
  
When he comes, Bahorel presses his own fist into his mouth to muffle his cry. Jehan looks up at him; his eyes are squeezed shut and sweat is beading on his forehead. He arches up, tense as a bow. Jehan presses his fingertips hard into Bahorel's hips; his release paints reckless stripes across Jehan's bare chest.  
  
Bahorel falls back against the bed, breathing heavily, almost laughing. Jehan kisses his way up his scarred stomach, his tattooed chest. He licks a line up the center of Bahorel's sternum, relishing the sweet-salty taste of exertion. Bahorel's big hands rise to cradle Jehan's shoulders and they fit together easily, legs intertwined, Jehan's face pressed into the crook of Bahorel's neck.  
  
Bahorel idly strokes up and down Jehan's spine, and Jehan runs his fingers through Bahorel's curls. Moonlight and cricket song spill in through the open window.  
  
They talk a while, about everything from poetry to classes to the police state. As they talk they gradually untangle themselves, Bahorel fetches a damp cloth from the bathroom to clean them up, t-shirts are pulled on and flies are buttoned.  
  
"I should go," Jehan says finally, catching sight of the time on his watch. "I have work in the morning, and – not that I wouldn't –"  
  
"Of course," says Bahorel. He finds Jehan's coat, scarf, and glasses on the floor. His hands hover alongside Jehan's jaw when he helps him wind the scarf around his neck. He casts his eyes down and smooths down Jehan's lapels. He's flushed, Jehan notices. Carefully, he brushes his lips over Jehan's cheek. Something has changed between them, Jehan can tell, and there's no telling what. But the bombast and bluster is gone from Bahorel's demeanor; he stands on his threshold as open-hearted as a schoolgirl.  
  
"Shy?" Jehan teases, softly. He braces a hand against Bahorel's chest and rises on his toes. Hungrily, he presses his mouth to Bahorel'sl he feels Bahorel relax and deepen the kiss.  
  
"Don't be," Jehan adds, when they break apart, both a little breathless and unsteady on their feet.   
  
Bahorel looks desperate to ask something, but he only says, "Take care," and sees Jehan out onto the dark streets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading loves! this installment was a little soppy but i promise these boys will return to more insurrectionary activities sharpish
> 
> xoxoxo


End file.
